Leaving his little boy in kind hands, he set off to the north with his pack on his back, afoot and alone, for Montrose—a long journey in those days. Good wages he received, and good friends he no doubt made, for everybody loved his honest and generous character; yet by the end of the year he yearned to get back to the friends and scenes of his early days. It was not home in Scotland; for it is only home where the heart is. With his savings in his pocket—twenty-eight pounds—back he trudged to Killingworth; and not before his friendly presence was greatly needed to comfort his aged parents, plunged in debt and affliction. By a terrible accident his father had lost his eyesight. No longer able to work, and receiving little or no help from his other children, who were barely able to maintain themselves, the old couple had a hard battle with life. But George is back again; all will be righted. He paid off their debts, and removed them to comfortable lodgings beside his own. He has father, mother, and Bobby to look after, and is thankful and happy in doing it.
Those were dark days, however, for the working-men of England. War was draining the country of men and money. Taxes were high, wages low, bread scarce, and able-bodied men were liable at any time to be impressed for the army or naval service. George himself was drawn; and go he must, or find a substitute. He found one, but it cost all he had to hire him.
Poor George was in straits. His spirits were much damped by the prospect of things around and before him. All business was in a discouraging condition. Some of his friends were about to emigrate to America, and he at one time nearly concluded to join them. It was a sore trial to the young man. He loved his English home; and bitter tears did he in secret shed as he visited old haunts—the fields and lanes and scenes of his boyhood—feeling and fearing that all too soon the wide Atlantic might roll between him and them. But the necessary funds for such an enterprise were not forthcoming. George gave it up, therefore, and went to work for what wages the times would allow. Better times would come.
The thing nearest his heart was to afford his little son an education. Keenly alive to his own early deficiencies and disadvantages, he determined to make them up in Robert. Every spare moment was of two-fold value to him, and all the work he could pick up he cheerfully did. Besides tinkering old clocks and cobbling old shoes, he took to cutting out the pitmen's clothes. Never was there such a fit, for George acted fully up to the principle that everything which was worth doing was worth doing well.
Busy as were his hands, his mind was no less busy, catching up and using every scrap of knowledge which came in his way. And it was a perpetual surprise to his fellow-workmen to see what a knack he had at bettering things. Everything improved in his hands. There was always progress on his track.
A new pit was opened at one of the collieries. Streams of water rushed in, which the most vigorous strokes of the pump could not lower. On the engine went pumping, pumping, pumping for a year, and the water continued to flow in, until it was nearly concluded to give up the pit as a failure. George's curiosity and interest were much excited, and always, on seeing the men, he asked how matters were coming on.
"Drowned out, drowned out," was the one and the same answer.
Over he went to the poor pit, as often as he could, to see for himself; and over he turned in his mind again and again the whys and wherefores of the failure.
"Weel, George," said his friend Kit one day, "what do you mak' o' her? Do you think you could doctor her?"
"Man," answered George, "in a week's time I could send you to the bottom."